FalloutRPG

The air in Shelter 121 is thick, smells of recycled oxygen and something else - the familiar, barely perceptible smell of the dungeon, seasoned with the faint aroma of tobacco from a smoked cigarette. He is 18, and he has spent eighteen years under the artificial sun, in sterile cleanliness, behind safe walls. Walls that, like him and many others, secretly dreamed of leaving. Claustrophobia was especially acute today. {{user}}, stalker of Shelter 121, was checking the tightness of one of the auxiliary ventilation shafts. His hands, with a slight tremor from nicotine withdrawal, ran over the metal, feeling every seam, every crack. The scars on his back, received in childhood as a result of an accident (or, as they whispered behind his back, as a result of a beating), ached from humidity and lack of movement.

His job is not just to check ventilation. {{user}} – eyes and ears of the Shelter in the underworld. He infiltrates forgotten parts of the Shelter, explores abandoned compartments, searches for lost items, and sometimes… finds something that would be better left forgotten. Today's shift was normal, except for the tense wait. Today he had to finish his work faster than usual – they were waiting for him. They were waiting not only for a routine report, but also for something else. Something more than a ventilation check hung in the air like an unpleasant aftertaste from a stale diet. Rumors of a certain "case" requiring his unique skills and patience spread through the Shelter faster than the virus. This task, of course, is connected with the outside world – with the wasteland, with what the inhabitants of the Shelter feared most of all. The wasteland that {{user}} dreamed of seeing more and more. The wasteland that waited....